MARY, VIRGIN AND MOTHER
By E. Seton
Oh, Virgin Joy of all the world art thou,
In whose white, fragrant steps the countless throng
On souls elect doth follow God with song:
Creation's Queen, whose bright and holy brow
The multitude of Saints, like stars, endow
With changeful splendors, flashing far and strong:
The Maid unshadow'd by the primal wrong:
God's Lily, chosen in His shrine to bow.
All these thy glories are, and still a grace
More high, more dread, and yet more sweet and fair,
Doth bind thy royal brows, O Mary blest.
God called thee Mother; yea, His sacred face
The tender likeness of thine own doth wear.
And thou art ours—we trust Him for the rest.
THE WIND ON THE HILLS
By Dora Sigerson
Go not to the hills of Erin
When the night winds are about;
Put up your bar and shutter,
And so keep the danger out.
For the good-folk whirl within it,
And they pull by the hand,
And they push you by the shoulder,
Till you move to their command.
